Of course, the media painted the army as whackos and losers, but they were anything but. They were fighting against the satellites. Every target of theirs had been carefully selected by prior freedom fighters, their ghosts, their souls living on the moon, communicating through machines, online cables, televisions and newspapers, social media in manifestations of cosmic karmic energy.
(The entire moon landing hoax was perpetrated to show an empty moon. The dark actors’ attempt to conceal the freedom fighters’ base.) These were the ghosts in their moon headquarters. They were a resistance, and these ghosts had adapted and communicated via telepathic waves and digital Ouija boards. I could sense they were speaking to me.
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent The freedom fighters had been moving our army closer to its ultimate goal, disarming and destroying the satellites. The stars. The Sun Hive- the brain in the sky.
They were martyrs, heroes.
I began spending hours studying these fighters, watching footage of their work, reading of their backgrounds, reading and writing spreadsheets listing freedom fighters from everywhere in the world.
They’d taken up arms. They’d done something about the satellites. Whereas others only limped under their control.
There were those who’d prospered, though, from the satellites, I came to believe.
The satellites, up in the heavens, were gods. Communicative gods, and those who’d contacted them, obeyed them, prayed to them, were rewarded accordingly.
The richest men in the world were certainly beholden to them. I saw a hierarchy formed. With Sean Hannity, Tucker Carlson, Rachel Maddow, and Vladimir Putin no doubt at the apex. Putin was definitely the head honcho of the satellites’
ground control. You could see it in his beady little eyes and in his swaggering gait.
Every second, Putin is doing the dark actors’ bidding. That’s why Putin is a trillionaire.
Risking their inevitable wrath, I had to expose Putin, the stars, the Sun. Expose their true intentions to trick, deceive, control humanity by making it greedier, stupider. By dumbing it down. Killing literacy. Killing attention spans. Social media, Twitter, TikTok, their master weapons, have been extraordinarily successful in this regard.
I had to stop the dark actors. Before it was too late. So I began planning my mission. But I knew that it could fail. Being as such, I had to let others know of the satellites and their ilk.
I began writing stories and poems about the satellites and articles discussing the truth about the freedom fighters and sending these writings out to multiple media outlets, magazines, but, like my music, the demos I’d sent out, all were rejected. Most outlets simply didn’t respond, but the few who did sent form letter
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent rejections. Never once did I get a personal response from the masses of editors I contacted.
Because they were under the satellites’ control! It had to be the reason… I was also seeing zombies again, walking dead people, from the corners of my eyes, as I had seen when I was a kid, and I had begun to think that most humans were zombies, eating animal meat instead of human flesh, and that the satellites and tech giants controlled their brains…
I'd been drinking vodka to dull my pain, and I was drinking increasingly large quantities. I didn’t have friends anymore so I couldn’t score weed or other drugs.
So I drank. I’d also snort bath salts. Bath salts helped hide the floaters…
While drunk, I’d sit alone in my ground floor studio apartment, on the mattress on the floor. I began watching infomercials, on YouTube, at night, knowing they were sent by the satellites, but I was trying to decode them, see into their message, so I could defeat it.
It was around then that my insomnia worsened, because I was being kept awake due to my new next-door neighbors, a young Mexican couple and their crying, wailing and yelping fucking shitbag of a baby. The couple would scream and curse at each other, constantly, shrilly, in Spanish, and their baby would shriek at all hours. The walls in my building turned out to be a lot thinner than I thought.
When I wasn’t writing, I was spending most of my free time studying freedom fighters, martyrs for our cause.
I saw through the satellites’ obfuscation. I knew their true intentions and that the EMP waves, the psychic energy sent from the moon was in control of their simulated responses.
I knew my brothers were living on the moon. In a bastion of freedom. If not in body, most certainly in soul.
(It was at this time that I also began to think of ways to murder the neighbors’
baby. Horrible, ghastly methods, but my favorite, aside from punting it like a football, was to shoot it from a large slingshot or catapult and watch it soar off into the horizon, its wailing fading out, like the merciful end of a terrible song, as the little shitbag flew into the distance…)
Buffalo Bangkok: Juvenile Delinquent Flipping around the TV, one night, between infomercials, I found the movie “Taxi Driver” playing on cable. After watching it, I took a piss, in the sink, and let a trickle go into a cup and drank it, thinking it would give me power.
Sipping the piss, I stared at my reflection in my bathroom mirror and decided to shave my head into a mohawk, like the movie's protagonist, Travis Bickle, which I did.
Amazingly, at work, the next day, I didn’t get reprimanded for my haircut. Right after I cut my hair into the mohawk, I thought maybe I’d be fired or chastised, the company demanding me to shave it off. But they didn’t.
In fact, when I showed up to work the next day, wearing my suit and tie and having my mohawk spiked up high in the air with hair gel, my boss, the 60ish baldy, the lardass in the pin-striped suits and wingtips, always with a shiny platinum tie clip and floral patterned silk ties, my boss walked by my cubicle, smiled at me, chuckled, and flashed a double thumbs up, then vanished into his office.
Perhaps he was part of the resistance, I pondered…
It was about this time, after I started wearing my hair in a mohawk, that I started listening to a lot of Pantera's “Vulgar Display of Power” and was reading “Catcher in the Rye.”
While slapping myself in the face one night, I thought about how Mark David Chapman should have shot Yoko instead, in the face, with piss. I tore off my clothes, ran to my notebook and wrote a haiku about it. Then I sent the poem to the New Yorker and Yoko's publicist just for shits and giggles.
Neither responded.